Have you seen the Kraft Italian Dressing Zesty Guy’s commercials? Oh my………
What do you think, ladies?
Have you seen the Kraft Italian Dressing Zesty Guy’s commercials? Oh my………
What do you think, ladies?
Oh good grief, I was watching an infomercial in the middle of the night. I am not the only one who apparently has eyebrows that have defected down to my chin. Someone invented a much needed product called Tweeze (pronounced tweez-ee) Tweezers. Check out their product description, “This battery-powered grooming aid seems to attract hair like a magnet, and makes it easy to tweeze in any direction. Fast and efficient, it works so well that it even removes those single, elusive hairs that pop up on chins. Easy to clean, the tweezer system is safe for use anywhere on the body (except eyebrows).”
It works on all hairs “except eyebrows.” Personally I prefer to call these runaways eyebrows. Consider the alternative; what else should we call them – woman whiskers? I don’t think so. One thing is certain; at least I’m not the only freak of nature!
They keep running away. They’re not exceptionally intelligent though; I keep finding them in the same place – you’d think they’d figure out that I know where to find them!
They are tenacious little tresses. I discovered one just the other day attempting to make a mass exodus off my face. It made it as far south as my upper lip before it stopped. I guess it forgot that it was trying to break free and just decided to set a spell. We’ve all had bouts of CRS when we can’t remember squat. (Actually ‘squat’ means nothing so to say can’t remember nothing is a double negative and what we actually mean is that we can’t remember anything, not nothing, but I digress). Have you ever walked into another room then forgotten what you were going to do, so you just sat down to do something else? Of course you have. Apparently that’s what said eyebrow decided to do. That little whippersnapper implanted itself right above my beautiful smile.
It is a sneaky dickens too. On the way down my face it changed from a strawberry blonde color to almost white. There it sat, lying in wait; growing longer and longer. I didn’t notice it until I did a mirror check to see if all the oregano was gone from my teeth. The sunlight hit it just right and voila – there it was!
A big ol’ long honkin’ white eyebrow took up residence on my upper lip. Isn’t that attractive? It must have popped out over night because there is no way I could have missed that daddy long legs growing from my face! I didn’t even need tweezers to extract that little defector. I just grabbed on and gave a firm but gentle tug.
It doesn’t stop there. About once a month I find yet another eyebrow on the tip of my chin! No wonder the neighborhood children ask me about my broom. The chin eyebrow is easier to find because the element of surprise is gone. About every 28 days, I lie in wait for that one. Bingo! Bango! You’re outta here! But what boggles my mind about that particular deserter is it always lands in the exact same place. It’s almost as if it takes on the form of a small ball of yarn inside my chin. It peeks its little head out, and if the coast is clear, pops out for a breath of fresh air. I yank that sucker out as it bids me adieu with the exact same words every month “See ya later Laurie, same time, same place!”
They get tired and need to take refuge in my neck, in the mole on my arm and in other places in-between on down to my toes. Women are blessed with this phenomenon more than our male counterparts, although I’m most certain the shifting eyebrows are equal opportunity offenders. Just take a look at some of the wooly mammoths at the beach and you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. Just why would one need hair on his back or in his ears anyway?
Alas, at this point in my life, I’ve learned to accept my not-so-imaginary friends. We have lunch together, we laugh, we cry, we pray together. I guess it’s not so bad after all. Now where did I put that URL for the Tweeze Tweezers?
I hate yard work. If I had my druthers I’d cement the entire yard to make all my property a gigantic patio. Perhaps someday I’ll be filthy rich and have a gardener; but for now as homeowner I’m stuck weeding, pruning, trimming and all that other nasty nature stuff. One of my teeniebops doesn’t mind driving the tractor, so she takes care of the actual mowing. I just get to do the unfun tasks.
Since I’m in the nearing-50 crowd, making a fashion statement isn’t high on my priority list, especially while working around my own estate. I have some fabulous rubber rain boots that I like to wear while I’m working in the yard – white with orange trim with yellow, orange and green citrus fruit pattern. I also often wear dresses, which offer a nice cool breeze up the nether region and of course I have my garden gloves which cover my forearms, so as not to scratch my delicate skin. Got a visual?
Recently I headed out back, loppers in hand and started hacking away at that over growth. It was hot and I was in a hurry as the yard waste disposal truck was due to come by within the hour. I was pulling the weeds that easily ejected from the dirt, and chopping down anything green or brown that was in my way. I was bound and determined to fill up that yard cart in record time. I was in the zone; I was making good time when all of a sudden:
YEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOW! What in the sam-hill was that? Did someone just shoot me in the arse with a b-b gun? Suddenly I felt like Forrest Gump who got shot in the buttocks. I threw the loppers to the ground as I tried to figure out where the sniper was hiding. I was twisting and dancing and the full moon was shining brightly. It’s just too bad that I didn’t have some music, a pole and an audience; I may have made a few bucks with that performance.
Owie, owie, ow. That smarts. Once I safely determined that I was not under attack I could see, correction, I could not see way back there, but I could feel a nice round welt arising on my not too small dupa. I needed to investigate further.
Back inside my castle I found a hand mirror and did a few contortions until I could clearly see that indeed a bee had stung me on the bum. And here all this time I thought “bet your sweet ass” was just an expression. Now I have the evidence to prove that I actually do have sweet cheeks. Aww honey – honey.
Enjoy the warm weather, butt just bee careful!
I like big butts and I cannot lie… You other buzzers can’t deny… Well shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake that healthy butt …Baby got back.
Normally I am one of those people who don’t like to read posts and tweets about individual’s exercise regimen. I embrace the concept that unless you fell off the treadmill no one wants to hear about your workout.
However, as a public service to you, my loyal readers, I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you what happens in one of those evil wicked spin classes.
To be clear of what I am referring, it’s a class in a gym setting, sometimes called Spin, Spinning or Cycling. The one I attended had sixteen stationary bikes, plus one for the instructor. The room is very dark and the music is very loud. I took a 45 minute class, which can more accurately be described as 45 minutes of hell.
I should probably confess that I haven’t been to the gym in a while, well six years to be exact, but who’s counting. Tuesday I did an hour of “Starter Fitness” where I was the youngest one in the class. I’m pushing half way to 100, so that’s quite a visual I just gave you about that aerobics class. Yesterday I spent an hour on various pieces of cardio equipment and then today was 45 minutes of hell. The brochure called it Beginning Spin. That class is misnamed.
I went with my teen daughters. None of us have ever tried it before. The Dominatrix, I mean instructor, was very helpful and showed us what settings to put our bike handle bars, seat and gears on plus how to put our feet in the little stirrups. (I had experience with stirrups, the girls haven’t yet!). Then the lights went down, the music went up and it was show time.
I was fine for the first minute or two as we were warming up. Not sure how we were supposed to “relax your shoulders” when it took every muscle in my upper body to hold me up on that hard, Barbie sized seat, that was clearly made for a five year old. Then the Drill Sergeant had the audacity to tell us to stand up and pedal. At least my lady parts could have a brief reprieve from that invasive seat.
Oh get this; the seat is referred to as a saddle. I’ve been on a horse before and I’m here to tell you that hard, black apparatus was about the size of my fist; it was not a saddle. It was a Polly Pocket intrusive protrusion.
So standing up, ah, relief for the first four or five seconds until I realized that my out of shape two legs were responsible for not only continually pedaling but holding up my entire body weight. Then the Dungeon Master informed us that if we were having a hard time holding our body weight, to increase the gears so that it would be harder to pedal. Ah huh. Got it. If you’re struggling, make it harder. No problem.
There was no way I was going to be able to continue to pedal an entire minute while standing. I put my butt back down on that tennis ball sized seat. Pfeww, legs no longer on fire … because that fire has been transferred back to my lady bits! Are you kidding me! I was afraid to look over at my daughters. The next who knows how long was somewhat of a blur as I came in and out of silent cursing and Lamaze breathing.
At one point I think I started to hyperventilate. I didn’t have a paper bag to breathe into though, so I believe it was at that point I started to pray that I would not pass out and fall off the bike. I’m pretty sure there were some veteran, hard core, Spinners behind us. I didn’t want to look like a total buffoon – a partial one would suffice. Besides, if I did have a paper bag I’m certain I would have been sitting on it to feign padding.
I remember looking at the timer that showed I was 17 minutes into the 45 minutes of hell. I couldn’t even do the math to calculate how much longer I had to endure the torture but knew it was a long, long, very long time away.
One of my daughters somehow knocked her water bottle off her bike which caused me to look in her direction. Bad move. She was practically in tears. The mom in me wanted to go scoop her up and tell her to just stop or somehow make it better for her. Of course that would have embarrassed her.
I had to look away. It was killing me seeing how much she was being tortured as well. She was stationed two bikes over from me and the music was blaring so I couldn’t hear her but could see that she was mouthing, “My butt hurts!” My own nether region was an inferno so I could feel her pain – literally. Oh, oh, Dragon Lady is talking again. Time to stand up again, faster, harder, up, down, down up, faster, harder… oh my Lord, my Heavenly Father, SAVE ME!
Breathe in through the nose, breathe out through the mouth. Or is it the other way around? Huffing and puffing, legs on fire, arms like noodles, sitting on hot coals…
Just then the Heavens opened up and an angel spoke. She said, “You’re doing great! Ladies, (she was talking to us) how are you doing? Are you okay? You’re doing great; only two more hills and we are done. Let’s finish strong. You can do it!” You got it babe.
I pedaled like I’ve never pedaled before. I stood, I sat, and I ran on that bike and I went like the wind. Harder faster; faster harder; more, more more. Don’t stop. Oh keep going. Yes! Yes! Yes! Until finally I reach peak performance. Halleluja! Haaaaaa-llel-uuuuu-ja! And then it was over. Every muscle in my body relaxed while my body still trembled and I tried to catch my breath. But was it really over?
…Not quite. After a brief cool down and stretching while perched atop our Angry Bird sized saddles, we were instructed to dismount and then place one leg on top of the handle bars. On top! Are you kidding me? As I was internally thinking, “Oh hell to the no” my thoughts were interrupted as my two, not too small gams prit-near buckled under me.
I wobbled around like a baby giraffe groping to find that micro sized seat that would serve as a life preserver to keep me from tumbling to the floor like a pile of pudding. It was nice of the She-Devil to point out to the rest of the class that the old lady was noodle legs. At least I made my daughters laugh.
As I exited the class, I resembled a ten month old toddler just learning to walk. Girls were still laughing though. Somehow I made it down two flights of stairs without needing to slide down the banister and then drove home.
But don’t let this scare you. Because you know what? Now that it’s been a few hours, I’ve cooled down and my limbs have stopped quivering, I feel great! I seriously can’t wait to go again. The beginner class is only held twice a week at my local gym. I sure hope that doesn’t mean because it’ll take four days to recuperate. I guess the true test will be how I feel tomorrow.
There are Spin classes available every day, just not beginning ones. I think I need to get my sea legs before I attempt to play with the big kids. In all seriousness, the instructor, Kathie was fabulous. She was adorable, very encouraging and made the class fun. Okay, not quite fun for us yet, but I can envision it in the near future. And it was a heck of a total body workout. I can see how people get addicted to it.
One of my daughters decided she would rather swim laps in the pool than to ever do that again. I think the other one may try it with me again. I just need to get some padded bike shorts or build up callouses or something. I don’t know how veteran bikers sit on those bricks they call saddles.
I hope this Warning has been helpful to you. And now I think I better go soak in the tub and try to mitigate rigor from setting in.
Thinking about joining a gym so you look sexy in your bathing suit? Before you do, there are some vital components you need to know about your location of said workouts – things the membership coordinator won’t tell you. For starters, no matter how hard exercisers try, it’s often an impossible feat to look cool; it just doesn’t work. Sometimes the harder you try to look sexy the more you look like a buffoon. It’s okay. Embrace it.
Someone please tell me how to be politically correct while talking to a naked person. I don’t know how to do this. I can appreciate that we’re all women and we have God-given bodies and there’s no reason to be ashamed. But, please, put a towel on before you attempt to carry on a conversation with me. [Read more…]
Pet Peeves – personal annoyances. Everyone has them. They’re generally the result of actions of other people – which means there’s not much you can do about it, other than ignore, accept or make a blog post about them.
Here are some of the thing that go up my behind sideways:
I haven’t dated in over 18 years. I’ve been single for 18 years. There might be a correlation. I don’t have a desire to date. I do have a desire to not die alone, so the lack of willingness to do the dating thing may become problematic at some point.
If you are middle-aged and newly single or perhaps have been uncoupled for a while, you may already know of what I speak.
Before you read my synopsis below, I humbly request no hate mail please. I realize there are exceptions to every rule, just not sure where you’re hiding.
If you go younger, then you’re a cougar. By definition, a cougar is a woman aged 40 years or older who preys on younger men. During a hunt, she can often be spotted by her leopard print outfit, which makes her feel and look younger. Cougars? Back in my day we just called them what they are: Old Whores. Hey – wait a minute! I have leopard print boots that I like to wear because they’re fun, not because I’m a cougar. Egads, have I been sending the wrong signal? But I digress…
If you try to find someone your own age they’re more likely to be freshly divorced, bitter or wounded and full of debt and child support. Or worse yet, they’re not divorced, they’re never married because they have serious trust and commitment issues or they’re still living at home mooching off family and friends. Or worser yet (hush, it’s a word now) there are married.
If you go older, it’s harder to find a single older man who is a good catch. Either they’re married, freshly divorced and the ex- took the house, retirement and any scrap of dignity left or they’ve really let themselves go health and appearance wise and don’t have much to offer.
A funny anecdote about going older: I recently took another trip to one of my favorite cities, DC. Before I left I told my girls that my goal was to meet a Senator and that I was going to pick an old one. “That way you can have a dad and a grandpa. You can call him ‘Grampdad’.” They weren’t amused. I believe their response was “Mom! Stop! That’s gross.” I thought it was funny. Still do.
So where does that leave you? Lesbianism? Perhaps. What other options are there out there? Well, someone who is single and hasn’t dated in 18 years isn’t the best candidate to give dating advice, so I won’t even try. I do know a thing or two about being happily single. Being alone doesn’t necessarily need to equate to being lonely. Do I get lonely? Sure, of course I do; but it doesn’t define me and I don’t dwell on it. I’m pretty happy in my own skin and have figured out years ago that my happiness does not depend on other people.
I don’t mind eating alone, traveling alone or going to the movies alone. You shouldn’t talk with food in your mouth; trips alone are relaxing; and you shouldn’t be giving commentary at the movies anyway. I am not in a place where I will go to a concert or social gathering alone. I’d rather stay home and watch Big Bang Theory or do a jigaw puzzle than go be a wallflower somewhere.
I work at home as a solopreneur so meeting someone at work is not likely to happen and I have less than zero desire to join a dating site. If it happens, it happens, but I am not about to try to squeeze a square peg into a round hole. And no, that’s not a euphemism for anything other than one Rated G.
So what’s my point if I’m not offering you any practical advice how middle aged women can date? See above; this isn’t a How To post, it’s a post alerting others that Middle Age Dating is Not Pretty.
But to ensure you don’t feel cheated now that you’ve made it this far, here’s my free advice: Don’t fret. (Another reason I may still be single if I’m using words like ‘fret’.)
You’re complete with or without a partner. Just don’t let yourself go. Your 25- or 30- year class reunion is coming up and you want your classmates to say Wow! Not Whoa!
*Saw that opening line on Twitter.
Peri-Menopausal Mom Punches Pizza
Child watches in horror
Published: Thursday 25 April 2013, 1:13pm EDT
SOMEWHEREIN, Mich (NOTKIDDING) –
One person suffered a minor meltdown after a frozen pizza would not fit into the freezer in a Michigan kitchen recently.
What started out as a mother daughter afternoon of bonding turned into a terrifying experience that shall not be soon forgotten by either traumatized party. While in the grocery store that afternoon the teen, known only as Cheeky Girl, decided some new garlic bread she heard about on a commercial sounded good.
Once home, the mom, often referred to as Princess, pre-heated the oven only to notice it was not the must-have garlic bread but rather a frozen pizza – not what either one was craving. Rather the family was partial to Jet’s pizza – so the frozen pizza simply would not do.
It’s also important to include a bit of a back story. Earlier, the mom purchased some Gaba-Calm which is an amino acid that is supposed to have a calming or anti-anxiety effect on those who partake in the supplement. Princess, a somewhat absent minded mom at times, kept referring to it as Kava-Kava, which is another supplement also associated with anti-anxiety. That is a key element in the remainder of this horrific chain of events.
Being ever so calm and agreeable, and knowing how much the teen was eager for garlic bread, Princess suggested they simply go back to the store and get said garlic bread. Before they returned to Meijer, Princess needed to put the frozen pizza in the freezer. Since they had just returned from grocery shopping, the freezer was well stocked. [Read more…]
The most recent Kmart Commercial about their newest shipping feature has caused quite a stir.
Some find it offensive; the group One Million Moms want it pulled. Others find it hilarious and watch it over and over; and then there are some who don’t feel strongly one way or another but do give Kmart props for their creativity. What do you think?
We all need to hear this every now and then. “Cry yourself a river, build a bridge, get over it and put your big girl panties on.”